mutiny, i promise you

Prom night, it turns out, isn't some big, magical night where you turn into a princess and re-fall in love with your ex-boyfriend. It's just a night where you feel really awkward in a dress and eat bad banquet food while thinking about how much your shoes are hurting your feet. And if you're me, it's the night you're really, really glad private clubs have obnoxious pink fainting couches in the ladies' room, because those couches are a nice place to sit while you try not to fall apart after your ex-boyfriend kisses you and sets off all the revelations I just mentioned.

So I'm not in love with Paul. I've already decided or realized or whatever it is that you do that I'm gay. My next move, then, is to go the hell home and shove my dress back into the closet and go to bed, right?

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong and, not to drive the point home, wrong.

I decided my best course of action would be to get in my shitty little Honda and drive thirty miles - in heels - to see Keith. Because Keith, as we know, is going to make it all better.

Okay, so that's not fair. It's not him; it's me. It's always "It's not him; it's me", though. Look at Paul. It's not him. It's me. He's a jerk sometimes, but I'm apparently a dyke all the time, and right now that just makes me hate myself and everyone else, because I put on a dress and make-up and did my hair, and then I kissed my ex-boyfriend and had sex with Keith.

Prom night isn't magic. It doesn't make you straight and it doesn't make you come, but it does make you feel like the most special girl on the planet when the guy who shouldn't be your best friend looks at you like that. It was the one magical thing about that disaster of a night, but now I'm stuck having to deal with it and I don't know how.

The weightlessness of coming out is still there most days. Sometimes I confuse it with the weightlessness of actually being out, of everyone knowing and everything being OK. Then things happen to remind me I'm not out in any meaningful way, that the one person who knows is so far removed from my every day life he doesn't even count.

Case in point: Paul asked me to the prom. The words were forming on my tongue, but then I realized I'm not ready to say, "No thanks, Paul, I'm gay." Maybe it would feel good to let him know. It might even be safe to let him know - there is probably a certain amount of shame in saying to your MCJROTC buddies that your girlfriend dumped you for another girl. It's not exactly the truth, but Paul is nothing if not good at distortion.

I could just say no and leave out the gay part. I should just say no. (Nancy Reagan would want me to, and I do everything Nancy Reagan tells me to.) But I feel bad about the abrupt way I broke up with Paul and, I admit it, I can be such a girl: I want to go to the prom. I want the stupid dress and the ridiculous hair and the corsage that isn't quite fresh. Going to prom holds roughly the same appeal as Halloween - for one night, I want to be someone else. I can take one last shot at being straight. I can make sure I'm not wrong. And maybe I can ride in a badass limo and go to a wicked after party.

I told him I'd think about it. So this is me thinking about it, and concluding that I should have said no before I had time to think of 26 reasons to say yes.

My parents are visiting my brother for the weekend and Linds has been trying to get me to throw a party. I told her it wasn't going to happen because I like not being grounded for life. (My parents are forgiving of a lot - getting arrested at protests, disappearing on weekends - but I think they might have a problem coming home to a house that smelled like pot and booze.) When I got home on Friday, I figured it was either Linds or my parents who had the phone ringing before I even got the door open.

I nearly dropped the phone when it turned out to be Keith. I haven't talked to him since his stupid friend was in town. "You have my phone number?"

"I have a phone book."

"What if my parents answered?"

"You said they were out of town."

"Like a month ago. What do you want?"

"I have that movie you wanted to see, what's it called."

"Drugstore Cowboy?"

"That's the one."

He was strangely insistent about coming here. ("I can get pizza on the way." "So could I." "Do you have money?" "No, my parents are letting me starve. Yes, I have money." "But if I buy the pizza, you can eat the leftovers tomorrow and save the money for whatever. Your parents will never know.") Halfway through the movie, I realized why: he hadn't had a clue what movie I wanted to see. I tested my theory by shoving my hand in his pants pocket and I came out with a Blockbuster receipt from about 15 minutes before he got to my house.

I was going to laugh and tease him and call him out, but then I remembered that look from that afternoon we got high on his porch. I crumpled up the receipt and tossed it in the pizza box without saying anything.

I still can't believe we hadn't talked for a month because his stupid friend was right.

I made my New Year's resolution, grabbed my keys, and got in the car before I could change my mind. It was warm outside but bone cold in the green machine, a dry, still cold leftover from a week of nights in the driveway. I pulled my sweater over my hands, swatted at the fuzzy dice Keith gave me for Christmas, and smacked the lever for the heater. I drove to Keith's with the heat on and the windows down, the steering wheel slipping under my sweater-covered hands as the dice dangled from my mirror.

Their fur is matted and worn and the white string is dingy and discolored. Keith says they're "the real thing" from the 50s, whatever that means, and that fighter pilots in World War II used to keep actual non-fuzzy dice in the cockpits of their planes for luck. I'm not sure how that works or why Keith thought I needed luck, but the dice are the same frog green as the green machine and I like them a lot more than I'll ever let Keith know. I haven't had them a week yet but I think the green machine would look naked without them.

I gave them another good thwack when I pulled into Keith's driveway, hoping for some of that World War II-era luck with keeping my resolution. I didn't think I needed it; I wasn't having a single doubt as I strode up to the porch and rang his bell six times before knocking out Shave and a Haircut on his door. I was almost bouncing on my toes I was so excited to tell him.

But then he opened the door and as soon as the possibility was staring me in the face, my stomach dropped down to my knees and I felt lightheaded. My mouth went dry and I dropped my keys. "Drinking already?", he joked as I picked them up. "Well, it is New Year's," I said. I twirled the key ring around my finger to prove I wasn't a total klutz before I stuffed them in my pocket.

I don't think I spent more than an hour at Keith's. I told him I was just killing time before a party and I thought I'd say happy New Year to him - I didn't say one thing about my resolution. I left without telling him I think I might be gay.

It was still December 31, 1989, five hours away from 1990. I told myself it didn't count.

Keith and I watch cartoons in the morning, sitting in front of the television in our pajamas while we eat breakfast. He woke me up one morning with scrambled eggs and sausage from Mickey D's, and he called me babes -- he picked it up from Beetlejuice, which we watch just to see who has the stronger stomach -- while we were eating. The horrified look on his face made me laugh so hard I nearly choked. He felt so bad he let me make screwdrivers to wash down breakfast.

By noon I had him drunk enough to smoke with me. We lit up on the deck, leaning over the railing and talking as we passed the joint back and forth. (We made all the necessary Just Say No and Nancy Reagan jokes.) I handed it to him once and all he did was stare at it until I nudged him, told him to smoke or share. He let me take it back, but I got shivers when he watched me inhale. "Let's go inside," I said. "It's cold."

There's this look guys get, this utterly transparent look. I've seen it on Paul, on Eric. I never expected to see it on Keith. But there we were, sitting on his couch a little high and a little drunk on a Sunday afternoon. There was football on television and that look on Keith's face. I was supposed to let him pretend to look me in the eye and I was supposed to let him say something I didn't want to hear. I covered his mouth with my fingers just before he could speak. "Don't," I said. I got up. "I'm going to take a shower."

I locked the bathroom door like it would put more distance between us and that thing in his eyes. The water was lukewarm and I couldn't believe I wasted weed on that.

Keith's couch has this smell to it. Leather smell, mostly, but also the smell of the rest of his place. Not a bad smell, just a smell, like anyone's house. You notice it when you first walk in the door, but then it's gone and you forget until next time. The only reason I really notice it with the couch is I sleep there, my face turned to the back cushion, and it's the first thing I'm aware of when I wake up.

I fell asleep like that early Friday night - it's a long story how I got there, how Keith was even home that early - and when I woke up a few hours later, I realized I couldn't smell it anymore. I couldn't smell anything. That's like a death sentence for me, it's the onset of hell. It happens and I know I'm destined to hit an emotional rock bottom and stay there for the next two days.

I thought about just getting in the car and going home. I don't know if I wanted the comfort of my own bed or if I didn't want Keith to see me like that or if I was just trying to run away from what I was going to feel. I put my sneakers on, got my keys... and ended up in Keith's room instead of my car.

There were a few times I woke up and a few times I managed to respond when Keith tried to engage me in conversation, but it was Sunday night before I crawled out of his bed. I kept telling myself I had to get home, I had to go to school in the morning, but all that telling only made me care long enough to make it out to the couch. I sat down and stared at something on the TV like a zombie, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in Keith's bed at 5:00 PM on Monday.

The upshot of this is I was grounded all week, sort of. I still had my car and I was kind of on the honor system because my parents weren't home when school got out - I think they might have just been giving me an excuse to do nothing but sleep, which is what I did. I'm just glad I feel like a person now.

It was 10:00 Monday morning when I wandered into school. I'd been sitting in my car since 8:00.

It was Jess's fault. I'd been thinking a lot about what happened and what it meant. I didn't realize how much, though, until two hours slipped away. As I opened my locker, I caught a glimpse of my chewed fingernails. I couldn't remember doing it.

In theory, I understand what it means to be gay. It isn't a complex idea: you're attracted to the same sex. Simple. What's surprisingly difficult is figuring out if it applies to you.

I never considered the possibility, and now I've been considering it so hard I feel like I might never again be attracted to anyone. I don't even know if I was attracted to anyone before. Is that why I was dating Paul? Why I made out with Jess? I think I've known them too long. I think there's too much history. I can't think about them on a purely physical or sexual level - their personalities are too entwined with the way I see them. I can't judge the degree of physical attraction without that playing into it.

I bought a stack of magazines on Sunday that are still stashed in my car: fashion magazines, men's and women's magazines, news magazines, music magazines, even a his and hers set of pornographic magazines. I spent hours looking at them Sunday, trying to make myself feel attracted to something on those pages. It didn't work, really. I ended up with a list of albums to buy, and I think I might have gotten turned on by a picture of a sports car. And if I ever decide to do it with a guy again, I have some great sex tips. But I didn't get anywhere with my experiment.

Here is what I know: two months ago, I was having sex with Paul. Three days ago, I was making out with Jess. Ten minutes after that, I was looking at Keith and thinking maybe.... But I discount that one. In that moment, after Jess, I think I would have thought that about anyone. Keith just happened to be the first person I saw. And I discount Jess for that matter - too many outside variables and no control. (That was either really profound or proof that four years of honors science has wrecked my brain.)

So I am left with Paul and six months of history and no idea what it means. I'm second guessing everything about us from why we got together to why we - to why I broke up with him. I'm even second guessing my second guessing, wondering if I'm really seeing what happened when I look back. I'm not happy with him at all right now; that makes for some inaccurate memories, or at least a disproportionate ratio of unhappy to happy memories.

I half want to start a new relationship just to figure this out. But somehow I don't think it works that way.

I have a sports jerk and I don't know what to do with him. I don't think he knows what to do with me, either, so at least we're on the same page. But when I got home Friday, there he was, using the sportscast to repeat what I had told him outside the locker room about why I was on the bench for the whole match.

So when I saw him at Saturday morning's game, which I was allowed to play in and which we did win, I snuck up behind him, tugged on his shirt, and said, "Can I talk to you? Off the record this time." It was strange, one of those things you do because you feel funny if you don't. He was there, I was there, I had to say something, especially since he kept looking at me.

I know it's his job to watch the game and I know I have a reputation for being the girl who does stuff worth watching - in particular stuff that usually hurts the next day - but not like this. You don't have to stare at me constantly to know when I eat floor. But whenever I looked up, there he was, looking back. He makes it hard not to be obnoxious - I waved at him before my jump serve (which happened to win us the game, doubling the quotient of obnoxiousness in the process and earning me a "what has gotten into you" from Coach. I figured "Keith Olbermann" would have been a bad answer on many levels and opted to take the question as rhetorical).

One thing I found out, though, is he's covering girls' volleyball until states are over. Someone had something happen so he's doing them a favor or whatever and taking over their assignment. So unless we blow it, I'm going to be seeing a lot of him. Like I said: I have myself a sports jerk.

Never having broken up with someone before - I know, shocker, right? Me, not breaking hearts left and right? Absurd! - I had no idea how poorly it actually worked. Apparently it doesn't make people disappear off the face of the planet. It doesn't make them disappear from the school or your classes or your lunch period. It doesn't even make them understand that you're serious and you've broken up with them.

It's been a week. A long week, with highs and lows ranging from Paul following me around like a lost, kicked puppy to a screaming match in the middle of volleyball practice. For which we were both summarily punished. His involved running, from what I hear. Mine involved doing hitting drills until I wanted to cry. He got off lucky, considering he cut his JROTC thing and this was his fault.

That was Tuesday. I missed the height of the rumors on Wednesday because I was at Eric's. For all the things breaking up with your boyfriend doesn't accomplish, it apparently does give Eric the go ahead to feel you up while you're getting high in his basement. So much for "you look like you could use a break." I should have known better. He's never needed an excuse with anyone. I mean, he's great, plus he's my hook up, but I don't think his hands have stayed where they belonged for more than five minutes since the seventh grade.

Normally I wouldn't care, or I would care, but only for the two seconds it took to straighten him out, except this came with a lot of mind garbage. It came with and without Paul. Usually I just say, "Eric, I have a boyfriend," but that was no longer on the table. It turns out that "don't" works just as well, but that's not really the point. The point is Paul was the last guy to do that with me and it tripped a wire in my brain that made me break up with him right in the middle of it all. I knew what we were doing - I got in the backseat with him, after all. But it annoyed me anyway, just like Paul was handsy Eric or something, and I remembered that feeling really clearly when it was Eric. I was just high enough that I couldn't decide if I felt that way because Eric was Eric, or because Eric reminded me of Paul reminding me of Eric. It's... confusing.

I need to get away from both of them for a while. Maybe the team will want to go out after the game tonight. That would be a good start.

Today I learned that I am secretly a middle-aged man. I have ballpark hotdog heartburn - or possibly the local sports reporter is a jerk heartburn. That is: I was on the TV machine again! Without getting handcuffed!

The handcuffs will come tomorrow, after I see the sports jerk again.

What an ass. I knew from watching him with my dad that he was an ass with a big head - in both the literal and metaphorical senses - but he seemed nice enough in person, if considerably dumber than he appears on the sportscast. (Paul said he was staring at my chest, but Paul says that about everyone. I keep telling him that just because he has a thing for flat-chested tomboys doesn't mean the rest of the world does. Do they teach guys to be jealous in MCJROTC?) And then I saw the interview.

So now the entire Bay Area thinks I am a (male) juvenile delinquent who has AIDS and hates the A's. Fantastic. Wonderful. I am delighted beyond words, although words are what I fully intend to have with that big-headed sports moron tomorrow night. The AIDS thing and the j.d. thing from the other week, fine. Shoddy reporting, but my only complaint is the one about losing my car for two weeks. But to make me look like I hate the A's and am unsympathetic towards Canseco's plight from earlier this season? I will not stand for this. Paul thinks I'm overreacting and should be more upset about the AIDS thing than this, but this is baseball we're talking about. This is serious business. A little perceived slander never hurt anyone - well, not me personally - but you do not turn me into a caricature of a fair-weather A's fan. I've been loyal to them since I was first able to escape my father's pro-Angels brainwashing at age seven.

Maybe this does constitute slander.